


A Dog's Life

by greerwatson



Category: The Charioteer - Mary Renault
Genre: Canine Perspective, Dogs, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2018-05-27 13:38:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6286795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/pseuds/greerwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laurie's dog, Gyp, has a very puzzling day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dog's Life

“What on earth are you doing here, old chap?” the old vicar asked, catching sight of the big brown dog poking his head through the bars of the lych-gate.  Gyp didn’t venture in, having been chased out more than once when he’d wandered round the gravestones, snuffling curiously, cocking his leg.

The vicar came down to the gate to greet the dog, reaching over to scratch the top of his head.  “You should be off home, don’t you think?” he said conversationally.  “Go on.   _Home_ , you silly creature.”

This was the second person who had addressed Gyp in terms of mild reproof.  The words meant little, but he marked the tone.  Indeed, as he trotted off along the lane, cutting through old Miss Atkinson’s flower garden, heading for the stream, he worried it over in his mind.  Had he done something he oughtn’t?  (He remembered yesterday, when Mrs. Howlett had chased him with her broom simply for investigating an intriguingly fresh patch of earth in her garden.)  He wondered, in a vague way, what he could possibly have done this time.  He had no idea.  He hadn’t jumped up with muddy paws, he hadn’t chased a cat, he hadn’t barked at the postman.  Still, there had been a definite hint of reproof in the vicar’s tone, and maybe amusement; and no properly socialized dog cares for either.

One word among the many had been familiar, and it had occurred in the speech of both humans.  “Home.”   _That_ word he knew.  Though he wasn’t the dog to take orders from just anyone, Gyp turned away from the enticements of the stream and broke into a trot, heading for the cottage.

When he arrived, his master’s mother—whom he did not truly consider his mistress—greeted him with obvious pleasure, and shut him in the garden shed.  This surprised Gyp:  the shed was usually preceded by sharp words and sometimes a smack to his nose (and was often followed by heavy drenching with water).  He had never before known shutting-up to be preceded by delight and a pat on the head.

For a while, he whined and pawed at the door, hoping to be let out.  Then, with a sigh, he turned three times and lay down, his head on his paws.  He napped briefly, nose tickled by the smell of drying mud.

After a while, he woke, recollected where he was, scratched his back vigorously, and took a turn round the shed (which was as boring as always).  Then he stopped.  Had he heard—?

Yes!  Yes!

In a flash, he was at the door, nose pressed to the gap, sniffing deeply.  It was!  It was!

He could hear the light quick steps of a shod boy’s feet on stone flags.  He could hear His voice.

He barked.  Again, and louder.  He reared up and set his paws high on the door, and let his lungs fill, and BARKED!

And then the steps ran up, there was a scraping at the bolt, and the door opened.  Gyp fell into the arms of his boy, for He was home for the hols.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by discussion in the post, “Lunch”, on the MaryRenaultFics LiveJournal community on 26 May 2012.


End file.
